Epitaph
by alh1971
Summary: Spike pays Buffy's grave a visit.


_AN: A sappy, angsty little one-shot about my other favorite blonde vampire and the woman he loves…_

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He was able to weave a more or less direct path through the cemetery, his Doc Martens leaving deep prints in the wet grass. While his steps may have been unsteady, his course was unwavering.

Finally, he jerked to a halt, causing the loosely gripped whiskey bottle to slosh violently. He glanced at the amber liquid that had spilled over his hand. Snarling in frustration, he jabbed the open end into his mouth, tilting his head back to drain half the contents unerringly down his throat. Wiping his opposite hand in an absent gesture across his mouth, he grimaced as rose thorns drew a bead of blood on his lower lip. Licking it away unconsciously, he dropped to his knees, his leather coat billowing about him.

A sob tore through his throat, disturbing a raccoon that was prowling nearby.

Through bloodshot eyes, he saw it: the headstone of his love.

With a trembling hand, he placed the wilted red rose on top of the marble and reached out to trace the cold, etched letters. The whiskey bottle fell out of his numb fingers and drained, momentarily forgotten, into the earth.

"Buffy…," he breathed.

Despite his best efforts to reach oblivion on his 11th bottle of the night, visions of the Slayer had flooded unbidden through his mind. Thoughts of her laugh, her beauty, the way her eyes twinkled (especially during the thrill of the fight), the grace of her body, her strength and her vulnerability…and…

The way her broken body lay crumpled on the ground after she dove to her death.

Her sacrifice.

A lightning bolt of guilt and visceral grief shot through his undead heart, causing the liquor to turn to bile in his mouth.

He had failed her.

Suppressing a desire to retch, he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood and summoned up his only other defense mechanism (besides drunkenness) to stave off the tsunami waves of grief that threatened to consume him.

"She saved the world…a lot," he mocked in a faux-American voice. "Wankers," he sneered. "Wouldn't know how to write a worthy epitaph if it bit them on the arse." He jumped up and paced, gesticulating wildly.

"Should bloody well express words that encompass your beauty, your goodness, your…effulg…" his voice trailed as the words failed him. His head lolled back as he stared at the star speckled sky. After several moments, inspiration hit him.

"She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes… yeah, that ponce had the words, not yours truly…never was much of a poet, luv," he explained to her headstone apologetically.

But seeing her name again caused another stab of pain through his chest. Sighing, he looked forlornly at the spilled bottle of bourbon lying on its side. A moment passed before he suddenly remembered the flask tucked within the inner pocket of his duster.

Smiling a small, pained smile he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on her grave and continued to attempt to drink himself into a coma. He spoke conversationally to her even as the tears poured down his face. He whispered a stream of consciousness, allowing the words to come unashamedly. He told her how he loved her, how much he missed her, how she was always in his thoughts and how he planned to meet the sun after finishing his obligation to take care of her sister. When the Bit died, he was done.

The words ran dry even as his eyes continued to weep. One thought began running through his alcohol-addled brain, which poured out of his mouth, almost as a religious mantra:

"I'm so sorry luv, please forgive me."

He continued with his whispered apologies until at last, he finally finished his flask. He felt completely spent, emotionally and physically.

His head nodded inadvertently.

Too drunk and tired to care, he curled up on his side, his head almost touching the headstone. He reached out and patted the marble, murmuring, "Hope you don't mind…jus' gonna lay here for a spot, pet, jus' to rest my eyes…"

Spike finally achieved his goal, passing out into a heavy and dreamless oblivion. So deep was his repose, his inner radar that typically warned him of daybreak didn't rouse him in time.

As the sun began to rise over the cemetery, Spike would have met his end. But…

The apparition of a woman, glowing with an inner light approached him. She paused for just a moment, smiling as she appraised the snoring vampire. And then her arms reached for him…

…

…

Spike woke with a start, groaning with pain as he clutched his head. His eyes were crusted with dried tears that protested against his efforts to crack them apart. Surveying his surroundings with a weary gaze, he jerked upright with sudden realization. Looking around his crypt, his mind was fuzzy and confused.

He remembered going to the liquor store, nicking his fags unseen to tuck inside his duster, even as he smirked and dutifully paid for his bourbon. He remembered checking on the Bit, making sure she was tucked in all safe at the house with Red and Glinda before he went to back to his crypt and began drinking in earnest. He vaguely remembered snatching a red rose out of a relatively recent grave's floral arrangement and then…passing out on the ground, but how the hell…? He glanced up at the sunlight that trickled through the cracks around the door.

By all rights he should be dust.

He stood on shaky legs and surveyed his surroundings. Something was off…something different…something subtle…

With a predator's practiced observation it took him only a few seconds to find it. He stumbled over to his bookcase and sobbed as he saw the volume of poems pulled out, open and bookmarked with a familiar red rose.

Lord Byron.

She heard him. His slayer had heard and she had saved him.

"You forgave me, luv," he whispered, the tears streaming down his face as he held the rose to his lips.

…

…

_Dedicated to the memory of my beautiful sister, an extraordinary police officer, today gone these past 10 years, and who, like Buffy, did her part every day to save the world. _


End file.
